“Not yet.” She sounded as exhausted as I felt. “I just wanted to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I spoke to Maeve a few minutes ago. She told me she overheard your dad talking to a friend earlier this morning. Apparently he’s somehow heard the news that Kinsey has broken her bail conditions and disappeared, and he’s planning on leaking it to the media. So we should be prepared for another onslaught of reporters and photographers.”
“Oh.” I coughed to clear my throat. “Sorry, that’s probably my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember when I told you about that app? I got the creator to post about Kinsey yesterday to ask people from CPA if they’ve seen anything,” I said. “Only students use the app, but one of them could’ve told their parents about the post, and then they could’ve mentioned it to Dad.”
“Oh, that’s right. I completely forgot about it. Honestly, I feel like my brain is melting from the lack of sleep.” Anna paused to let out a weary yawn. “Has anyone replied?”
“There’s a ton of comments, but nothing useful yet.”
“I’m sure someone will say something eventually. At least I hope so. And don’t worry about the media. It’s probably a good thing that they know about Kinsey being missing,” she replied. “The more publicity the case gets, the more likely it is that someone will come forward with information.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“I was mostly just worried that you’d get swarmed by reporters again,” Anna went on. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, we’re all good here. I think the media is staying away from the memorial service out of respect for Cerina’s family.”
“That’s good.” She let out a short sigh of relief. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it. Stay safe.”
I ended the call, slipped my phone back in my pocket, and continued up the path toward the expanse of lawn where the memorial service was being held. Erin fell into step beside me again. “Everything okay with Anna?” she asked, forehead puckering.
“Yeah. She was just warning me that we might get mobbed by reporters later today,” I said, mouth tugging down in a grimace. “My dad’s trying to cause trouble for us by leaking information about Kinsey’s disappearance.”
“God, he’s such an asshole,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “But in the end, it’s actually a good thing if everyone knows she’s missing, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I sighed and scraped a hand through my hair. “I just hope someone will finally come forward with some real information.”
“They will,” she insisted. “I mean, there has to be someone out there who’s seen something, right?”
I nodded, and we lapsed into a tense silence. When we drew closer to the gathered crowd on the lawn, we found a spot near the back and cast our gazes around. Cerina’s killer could be right here at this service. Hell, they could be standing right in front of us.
I wished I knew the exact signs to look out for, but real-life criminals didn’t behave like the criminals in movies. Cerina’s killer wasn’t going to stand around rubbing their hands and shiftily darting their eyes around. They were probably going to emulate everyone else at the event and force themselves to cry in order to fit in. At the very least, they’d look morose and keep their head appropriately bowed.
Bobbi nudged me. “Did you see all those cops?” she whispered.
My mouth compressed into a thin, grim line, and I folded my arms and stared over at the row of police officers on the side of the crowd. It seemed like Crown Point’s entire force was in attendance. “They’re a bit hard to miss,” I muttered, turning my attention back to Bobbi.
“They probably think Kinsey is planning to sneak in to watch the service. Murderers tend to do that,” she said. I stiffened, and her eyes widened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t think Kinsey is guilty. I just meant—”
I lifted a hand. “It’s fine,” I said curtly. “I know what you meant.”
The service began a moment later. Friends and family members got up on the makeshift stage erected in the center of the lawn and shared fond memories and stories of Cerina, one after another. Some sang songs. When they were done, each one took a purple calla lily from a vase near the microphone and knelt to place it at the base of a gilt-framed photo of Cerina.
At twelve o’clock, Ted and Nora took the stage. Nora dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief as Ted adjusted the mic to his level with a trembling arm. “Thank you so much for coming out here today,” he said. “We’re so grateful to each and every one of you, and we’re so happy to see how many people loved and cared about our daughter.”
Nora took the mic. “I wanted to tell you all a story about Cerina,” she said, voice cracking slightly. “Everyone remembers how headstrong she was, but here’s something a lot of you didn’t know about her. She had a very soft spot for animals, and when she was a little girl, she’d constantly ask us to donate money to every animal-related charity she came across. One day, we were driving up the coast, and she spotted an injured bird on the edge of the road. We were going to leave it there, because we didn’t think there was anything we could do, but Cerina begged us to take it to a vet. The vet managed to fix the bird’s leg, but it was still quite weak. We brought it home with us, and Cerina put it in a shoebox and nursed it back to health over the next two weeks, feeding it with a dropper every couple of hours. Finally, the bird was well enough to go outside and fly away. I’ve never seen Cerina so happy.”
“It’s my very favorite memory of her,” Ted interjected, leaning over to the mic. “She was only eight years old back then, and already she cared more about everyone and everything than most people in this world.”
Nora sniffed and wiped her cheeks. “That’s right. Our little girl refused to let anyone be taken too soon, even if that someone was a tiny animal,” she said, voice cracking again. “I just wish the universe repaid that kindness. I wish she wasn’t taken before her time. But I’m still incredibly grateful that we were able to share eighteen years with her. Eighteen years of love and happiness.”
“Thank you again for coming today. All of you,” Ted said, voice going husky. “I can’t tell you how much it means to us.”